


Bookends

by samchandler1986



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 19:40:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8635540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: As the Earth orbits the sun one more time, as the calendar edges closer to counting another year of her brief life, it’s a time for renewal. Like a mini-regeneration. And unlike the TARDIS, Clara’s wardrobe is resolutely finite.





	

It’s been weeks, for him.

An unexpected detour into the Hieronymus Nebula, an unanticipated encounter with a Seventh Negel of the Umanian Battlefleet; a short but bloody ground war. The smoke-and-sweat stained clothes are still discarded on the floor of his bedroom. Or they were, the TARDIS has an uncanny knack of rearranging herself internally until articles like that find themselves in her laundry.

“You’re early,” she says, not unhappily.

“Relative,” he shrugs. “What are-why…?” He waves a hand at the chaos of her bedroom, trying to make sense of the piles.

Her smile widens at his confusion. “What am I doing? Spring cleaning.”

“It’s November.” He is seized with sudden fear. “Isn’t it?

“Yes,” she replies, smile faltering a little now, picking up the clues. “I was only teasing. Are you okay?”  

“Fine, fine.” He picks up an article of clothing from the nearest pile, giving the elastic an experimental tug. “What do you do with it all once you’ve cleaned it, anyway?”

“Doctor!” she admonishes, snatching it back. “Do you even know what—?” Her frown stalls, mid-sentence, as she takes in his genuine confusion.  “Never mind. I’m not doing anything with it. I’m giving it away.”

“Wasteful.”

Her turn to shrug. “Not really. I give it to charity. Well, most of it. Not _that_ ,” she says, pulling the elasticated garment out of reach of his twitchy fingers again. “But anything that might be useful to people.”

He lets it go at that, watches her shake, fold, and pack clothes neatly into bags. He thinks, perhaps, he understands. As the Earth orbits the sun one more time, as the calendar edges closer to counting another year of her brief life, it’s a time for renewal. Like a mini-regeneration. And unlike the TARDIS, Clara’s wardrobe is resolutely finite.

“I could make this bigger, you know,” he says, knocking open the door. There are yet more clothes hanging inside.

“Nah,” she says, still absorbed in her folding. “I’d only fill it and I don’t get paid enough for that.”

He isn’t listening. Near the front of the wardrobe is a cardigan with tiny bow ties picked out in shining thread.  Unseen, he touches it with one forefinger. Bow ties. He never noticed at the time. She hasn’t worn it since. Fair enough, really. It was a strange day for her. A stranger millennia for him. But she hasn’t thrown it away, either.

He watches her, absorbed in her task, and wonders if she knows how grateful he is that she stayed. A bookend to his lives. The compass point he has started to rely on; helping him point due Doctor when the universe tries to bend him out of shape again.

She catches his eye, making him cough and—to his horror—blush slightly.  “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” she says, as he stares at his feet.

“A-hem. A little. Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?” he asks sharply, head snapping up.

Her eyes are soft. “For not skipping a Wednesday.”

He shrugs again, scuffing toes against her carpet. “Like I said. Time is relative.” But her gives her a brief smile, before holding out his hand. “Shall we?”

“Let’s.”


End file.
